Wait! Morning will determine the middle u
As a grief, a gerund whose continuity carries
The verb to far for the literary mind!
Never -ing me, this chessboard wants
Perpetuity, not mates. And I do not concur,
As is the contrarian way-out, ways out,
Sea, old human, the ocean is a lifeline
From too far away, middle westerner,
Your oily thirst slakes not at the hot middle
Mourning, and neither will your breathing
Be comforted by the comfiture that was
Once offered in an age on disextinct innocence
So take my morn, pour hot coffee (mercantile
Style) on my waffle head and house me in
An air conditioned tunnel, devoid, unpeopled,
As survival is conditional on loneliness'
Perfection and the insubordination to
Any grouply norm
Roman Ryan 